Of course. Hudson Yards—New York’s gleaming new empire of glass towers and billion-dollar dreams—is my latest battlefield, and now some politician thinks he can throw a wrench in my plans. I pocket the phone, jaw tight.
Not now.
Now all I can see is Bella, bare and panting, my ruined lace trophy burning a hole in my pocket. I want to wrap it around my fist later, stroke myself to the thought of her wearing nothing under that dress, every step she takes tonight a reminder of how wet I left her. My cock twitches, and I grit my teeth, forcing a slow breath. Patience. Control.
I reach for the decanter on the table, pouring a measure of Macallan 18 into a heavy crystal glass. The amber liquid steadies my hand, a burn I can control, unlike the fire she’s lit in my blood. I grip the glass, willing the cool weight to ground me, to keep me from storming back in there and taking her against the wall.
Bella’s dry cough breaks the silence, a soft rustle from the dressing room. I straighten, glass halfway to my lips, every nerve on edge. The curtain parts, and there she is—Bella, stepping out in that red dress like she’s walking straight out of my filthiest fantasies.
Fuck me.
The gown clings to her like liquid sin, scarlet silk hugging every curve, the neckline plunging just enough to make my blood roar. Her tits are a goddamn masterpiece, barely contained, the fabric teasing the swell where my hands shouldbe. The slit up her thigh flashes skin with every step, a promise of that bare, slick pussy I know she’s hiding—no panties, just like I ordered. Her hips sway, slow and deliberate, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me. Her hair’s a wild cascade, framing those eyes—blue fire, defiant and needy, daring me to break my own rules.
My cock’s a steel rod now, pulsing so hard it’s painful, my balls tight with the urge to drag her somewhere private and fuck her until we’re both raw. My fingers flex around the glass, itching to grab her, to rip that dress off and bury my face between her thighs until she’s sobbing my name. But it’s her face that stops me cold—cheeks flushed, lips parted, a mix of vulnerability and power that makes my chest ache in a way I don’t trust.
She stops a few feet away, one hand on her hip, and cocks an eyebrow.
“Well? Is this distracting enough for you, or should I try something with a higher slit?”
My jaw clenches, heat flooding my gut.
“Careful,krasavitsa,” I say, voice rough as gravel. “You’re playing with fire, and I’m not in the mood to be gentle.”
Her lips quiver, not quite a smile, her eyes wide and glassy from the way I left her aching. She shifts her weight, the dress clinging to her curves, and swallows hard.
“What’s that look?” she says, voice low, a little unsteady. “Planning to leave me hanging again, or is this dress finally good enough?”
I set the glass down, slow, deliberate, my eyes locked on hers.
“Keep talking like that, and you’ll be on your knees before we leave this room.” My gaze drops to her mouth, imagining those lips wrapped around me, and my cock throbs so hard I nearly hiss. “That dress is a fucking crime. You’re lucky I don’t tear it off and take you right here.”
She steps closer, close enough that I catch her scent—jasmine and heat, pure sex. Her eyes flicker, wide and unsteady, no words forming as she bites her lip hard. A tiny shiver runs through her, and I see it—the way she’s picturing herself on her knees, yearning so fiercely it steals her voice, leaving her raw and exposed.
I’m on my feet before I realize it, towering over her, my hand catching her chin to tilt her face up.
“No come back, Bella?” I murmur, thumb tracing her lip, her pulse racing under my touch. “You don’t need to talk when I can feel how much you want me—ready to break, just waiting for my say.”
Her pupils dilate, a soft gasp escaping, and I feel it again—that flicker of something softer, warmer, in the way she leans into my touch. My thumb lingers, tracing her jaw, and for a split second, I want to kiss her, to taste that fire without breaking it. The thought shocks me, and I drop my hand, stepping back before I do something stupid.
“Move,” I say, voice clipped, nodding toward the door. “We’re late.”
She blinks, thrown, but recovers fast, tossing her hair with a smirk.
“Yes, sir,” she purrs, mock-saluting, and fuck if that doesn’t make my balls ache worse.
As she sashays past, the dress hugging her ass like a lover, I clench my fists to keep from grabbing her. My body’s screaming to take her now, to hell with the Summit, but I’m Konstantin. I don’t crack. Come tonight, with nothing but that dress on her slick skin, she’ll plead for me, hoarse and broken, till the world knows she’s mine to wreck.
27
Bella
Holy mother of all questionable life choices, what was that back at Bergdorf’s? Intense doesn’t even cut it—try sexually apocalyptic.
Konstantin Belov, with his carved-from-marble face and that accent like a velvet blade, went full-on possessive lunatic—ripping my panties to shreds, pinning me like he owned every inch of me, leaving me a trembling, soaked mess. And don’t get me started on his cock. I swear I can still feel it, hard as steel, when I grabbed him, practically daring me to forget how to blink. I’m a grown woman, not some swooning damsel, but that man’s got me questioning my grip on reality.
Now, stepping out of his ridiculous Rolls-Royce Cullinan—because apparently, Konstantin doesn’t roll in anything less than a six-figure chariot—I’m waging a silent war not to ruin this red dress in a way no stain remover could fix.
No panties, courtesy of that smug jerk.
